


Auld Lang Guy

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Holiday Chuckles [2]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's a booty call with potential for FEELINGS, M/M, New Year's Eve, Preklok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Pickles checked the address he’d scribbled on the back of an old room service receipt, found the townhouse with the right number on the door, and went up the stairs to ring the bell. While waiting, he checked the address again. This was aniceneighborhood, and he’d shown up in ripped jeans and a crop top hoodie. Hopefully this was the right house and there wasn’t some sort of neighborhood watch already calling the cops on him for looking too ‘urban.’
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Holiday Chuckles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002837
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for HeyMurphy's birthday in like 24 hours so it's a little rough. There will probably be more later, because she requested "maybe something sweet with Pickles taking care of Charles for some reason" and I didn't even get to that part. It's still fairly cavity-inducing, I think? But rest assured Pickles is gonna get him so hammered and require hangover help in the morning.

Before Pickles got out of the cab, he checked himself in the rear view mirror. Bandana straight and not sliding down too much? Check. Nothing under his nose that needed to be wiped? Check. He tossed a handful of change and crumpled bills to the driver and popped out, hitting the sidewalk with a bounce to his step. 

This was going to be a good night, he had a feeling. New Year’s wasn’t something he usually had an actual _date_ for—mostly he just hit the bars and whoever he ended up with by midnight, that’s who he screwed in the new year with. But he liked this guy, for all that they’d only met five days ago. The contradiction of seeming like a serious, normal person yet also cool enough to fool around in the back of a movie theater was interesting. Good kisser, too. 

Pickles checked the address he’d scribbled on the back of an old room service receipt, found the townhouse with the right number on the door, and went up the stairs to ring the bell. While waiting, he checked the address again. This was a _nice_ neighborhood, and he’d shown up in ripped jeans and a crop top hoodie. Hopefully this was the right house and there wasn’t some sort of neighborhood watch already calling the cops on him for looking too ‘urban.’ 

The door opened and Charles peered out at him, looking dressed for some sort of business meeting—suit, pastel tie, dress shoes, the whole shabang. Where was the guy who’d had the zazz and nerve to jack off to an indecent display in a public place? But then, Pickles remembered, he’d been wearing a button down and khakis at the time, so. Obviously the wrapper wasn’t the whole story. 

“Pickles? Christ, get inside before you freeze to death.”

“Heh, thanks chief.” He hurried inside, abandoning his musings on his host’s inner workings in favor of escaping the winter chill.

The inside of the house was nice too, if a little sparsely decorated. There was an honest to god fireplace on the far side of the front room. It actually had a fire going in it, roaring cheerfully away. Pickles walked gratefully over and put out his red-gloved hands to appreciate the heat, shedding both gloves and hoodie after a moment for more direct exposure to warmth. 

Charles closed the door and stood watching him. Staring, really. If Pickles had to guess, he was thinking, _Pickles from Snakes N Barrels is in my living room._

“You, ah. That’s what you used to wear on stage,” Charles blurted out. Immediately, color began to rise to his fairly pale face. 

Pickles chuckled. “Thought you might like that. Jeans’re kinda torn up now, but they still fit.”

“I noticed.” Cheeks absolutely red now, Charles shrugged awkwardly and hurried past into what was evidently a kitchen, because Pickles heard a fridge open and close and the rattle of ice. “I have champagne,” he called. “For a New Year’s toast, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Slipping out of his boots for sock-footed stealth, Pickles followed him. 

“I wasn’t sure if you, ah, wanted anything to eat while you’re here, but I got a few things at the store on my way home. If you want something else I have plenty of takeout menus—”

“How come you’re all dressed up?” Pickles interrupted, sliding both arms around Charles from behind and playing with his tie. It was a pretty nondescript paisley thing, and privately he thought the guy could do better. 

Charles didn’t so much stiffen at the surprise contact as go suddenly still. “I, ah. Got held up at work, a case I was on took longer than expected. . . . I didn’t have time to change.”

“That’s cool.” Pickles rested his chin on Charles’ shoulder, looking down at the tie as he slowly loosened it. “I can help ya get down to somethin’ more casual. Guy like you, with one’a those important suit-type jobs . . . I bet you don’t get a lot of time to just relax, do you?”

“Ah, no. Not really, no.”

“I never had a job like that,” Pickles continued idly while he finished with the tie. He let it slip silkily between his fingers to puddle on the floor, then moved onto the shirt buttons, amusedly curious to see if Charles had an undershirt on again. “Too stuffy. My dad had a suit and tie job. . . . He was an asshole anyway, but he always came home stressed out and pissed off. I never wanted none’a that. It was always gonna be music for me, ever since I was a kid. I always loved makin’ a racket.”

He paused, and wondered why he was talking about any of that. Not once, out of the hundreds of groupies and other nameless strangers he had fucked over the years, had he ever said anything about his early years, much less his garbage can of a father. Not even to Tony, and they’d been real close right up until Snakes n Barrels had imploded for good. 

Maybe it was that Charles hadn’t dropped a single judgmental comment about sucking off that drug dealer, last time. He’d definitely seen it—and gotten off to it, even—but it was like, after it happened it dropped into some black hole and wasn’t mentioned again. Confidential, like with therapists and priests and shit. 

“What do you do, anyway?” Pickles asked, and found that he genuinely wanted to know. Wild. How had this rando from the movie theater gotten him making dates and taking an interest in just a few days? 

“I’m in corporate law. It’s, ah, not very interesting.”

Maybe it was that Charles, unlike all the groupies and nameless faces, didn’t go out of his way to volunteer anything about himself. But damn, he sure did give it when prompted. Like with his business card last time . . . which Pickles could’ve used to figure out what kind of job it was on his own, probably, but whatever. He got the last button undone and slid his hands down what was, as he’d suspected it would be, another undershirt, reaching down a bit past the belt buckle—oh yeah, Charles was definitely ready to give. 

After all, date or not, this was still a booty call. 

Pickles licked his lips and turned his head to nuzzle against Charles’ jawline. Whatever aftershave or shampoo he used, it smelled damn good. “Midnight’s not for, what, over an hour? Let’s have a little fun first.” Pressed so close, he felt Charles’ breath hitch.

“. . . . Here?”

It wasn’t a no. He grinned into the guy’s neck. “If ya want, dood. Or we could try the bedroom.”

“Ah. Okay. Yeah.” 

Charles turned his head and Pickles seized the opportunity for a kiss. Before he knew it Charles had turned into him and was doing some exploring of his own. _Bold_ , he thought; he liked that too. Liked the way Charles’ hands settled at his waist, where his skin was still cold from outside because the shirt didn’t come down to the top of his jeans any more than the hoodie. _Warm._ Pickles let out a little groan that they both swallowed, and kissed him harder. 

It felt so good, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was the stuff he’d taken in the cab ride over and how much was just Charles. 

They came up for air with Charles backed up against the kitchen counter and Pickles about ready to climb him right there after all—and only then because they were literally gasping for breath. 

“Bedroom?” Charles panted. His glasses were crooked. 

“Bedroom,” Pickles agreed just as breathlessly, and straightened them for him. “You got more than one bottle of champagne here, chief?”

“Yes, why?”

Pickles smirked. “That question,” he replied, “is _naht_ very rock’n roll.” He grabbed the chilled bottle out of the ice bucket and held it aloft in a vaguely _onward_ sort of gesture. “Lead the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Charles thought upon waking was, _Oh no_. He lurched out of bed to make a run for the bathroom, but his legs were tangled in something so he fell out of bed more than anything else, and had to make due with scrambling for a wastebasket. 

As he retched—it was mostly liquid—he searched his pounding head for clues as to why this was happening. What the hell had he _done_ last night?

“You okie there chief?” yawned a voice behind him, still in bed. 

That jogged some memories. Not having any plans for New Year’s and then getting an unexpected call. Thinking, _Oh my god, Pickles from Snakes N Barrels is in my living room._ Pickles himself, holding up a champagne bottle with an unconscious rock of barely clad hips, thumbing the foiled cork _extremely_ suggestively. He was pretty sure that they’d emptied most of his modest liquor cabinet. And that Pickles had brought a few joints. 

Thank fuck he had New Year’s Day off. 

The sound of Pickles getting out of bed and padding out of the room didn’t entirely register, but a few long minutes later he looked up to Pickles offering him a towel and a glass of water. Charles took them, wiping clumsily at his face and taking a drink of—

“That’s not water,” he sputtered, putting the glass down hastily and leaning back over the wastebasket. 

“Never said it was.” Pickles retrieved the glass, sounding a little put out that half of his help had been rejected. “It’s hair of the dog, dood, just a little vodka. What’s the problem?”

“Can’t keep it down,” Charles answered tersely, and went back to gagging. 

Pickles sighed, knocked back the shot or three of vodka, and sighed again. “Party time really isn’t your usual scene, huh?” 

Charles didn’t answer because he was a little busy, but he didn’t mind the hand suddenly rubbing slow circles on his back. It moved up his neck and started massaging at the base of his skull, and to his distant surprise, the throbbing headache eased just the tiniest bit. 

Maybe, said a voice in the back of his head, it had something to do with not being able to remember the last time anyone had been in a position to do something like this for him. It was nice. 

Weird that it was the celebrity crush from his not-so-long-ago misspent youth, though. 

He relaxed into the touch and gradually the feeling of his body trying to reject his entire stomach subsided. Charles spat into the wastebasket a few times, trying to clear the awful taste from his mouth, and was quietly glad that Pickles was still touching him. 

“Empty yet, chief?”

“Ah. . . .” He coughed, trying to clear his throat and wincing at how raw it felt. All that stomach acid coming up had not been kind. “I think so.”

“Cool. Let’s get you back in bed, then.”

Standing felt like his legs had turned to rubber and lead at the same time, but he made it to his feet just in time for the floor to start rolling like the deck of a ship at sea. 

"Woah there,” Pickles said, quickly getting an arm around to steady him. “Y’know, there are better hangover cures. Beer and tomato juice is a good one, but I couldn’t find any beer in yer fridge. What kind of a bachelor doesn’t have beer?”

Charles’ stomach gave a halfhearted lurch as they moved towards the bed. “Do you have any ideas that, ah, don’t involve eating or drinking anything?”

“Heh, sure I do.” They made it to the bed and Charles slumped onto it and rolled onto his side. He hadn’t grabbed his glasses before getting up, but they were close enough that he could still make out Pickles’ lopsided grin. “Ever tried heroin?”

“No,” Charles replied, and there must have been a peculiar look on his face because Pickles, still grinning, held up both hands in a placating gesture. 

“Okie okie, didn’t think so. Not like I’m holdin’ right now anyway.” He sniffed, for no apparent reason. “Think you can do some water and Advil?”

“Yes. Ah, in the bathroom cabinet,” Charles added to Pickles’ already retreating back. 

The musician turned the correct direction going out of the bedroom, so presumably he’d shown him the way at some point last night. Then Pickles paused and popped his head back in. “But dood, I’m tellin’ ya, works _every_ time.”

Then he was gone again, leaving Charles smiling involuntarily to himself. The drug use didn’t bother him. More than a few of his colleagues took plenty of shit to sharpen their competitive edge, so he’d seen plenty. It didn’t bother him that Pickles’ chipper mood was probably courtesy of cocaine—but a reasonable amount, nothing crazy, just to level himself out. That was fine. And he was pretty sure there hadn’t been any heroin, either last night or this morning. Pickles hadn’t been awake doing anything when he’d gotten up, otherwise he would’ve noticed him sooner. 

It wasn’t that Charles had blacked out completely. The memories were still there. . . . Gauzy and elusive, but there. 

He remembered Pickles straddling him and popping the first bottle of champagne open, dripping foam everywhere before swigging right from the bottle, then holding it for Charles to do the same. Licking the spilled wine off Charles’ bare chest, not wasting a drop. Then they’d had sex. 

He remembered opening the second bottle at midnight and pouring it into chilled champagne flutes while they watched the Times Square countdown. All he’d had on by then was his boxers and the open shirt he’d thrown back on, but Pickles lounged on the couch naked with a thin stream of smoke trailing from the joint they were passing back and forth. After the countdown they’d had sex on the couch. 

He remembered singing along to some old Snakes n Barrels albums, then going into the kitchen for liquor so he could prove some point about mixed drinks. Had he told Pickles about bartending in college? Maybe. Probably. Yes. And then they’d had sex in the kitchen after all, too. 

Now, hangover notwithstanding, he felt pleasantly sore all over, scratch and bite marks included. And maybe he had lost count after the first three times, but the overall lingering impression was that it had been _good_. Definitely worth it. 

So what was nagging at him?

Pickles trotted back into the room with a glass and a pill bottle, and despite the blurry vision at that distance Charles was struck by how the man was walking around the house naked, completely unselfconscious. He himself had never been inclined towards that even in his own house, let alone a virtual stranger’s—and yet, he was just as naked and hadn’t bothered to get under the covers. Didn’t even feel awkward as Pickles’ gaze raked over him, though feeling like death warmed over probably had something to do with it. 

The water in the glass tasted like Pickles had filled it from the tap without rinsing out the last of the vodka from earlier, but it was probably fine. 

“Glasses?” Charles croaked after popping a few Advil. After some poking around in the general area surrounding the bed, Pickles dropped them into his hand. And they hadn’t even been stepped on in all the revelry. Nice. “Thank you.”

Pickles sat on the bed at Charles’ hip level. Skin to skin. The sudden cognitive dissonance of feeling like crap but stimulated at the same time made Charles’ insides squirm—oh. 

Oh, _that’s_ what was bothering him. He was used to a comfortable, boring sort of life, and this . . . wasn’t, but he was sure as hell enjoying it. Maybe too much. Maybe he wanted to get used to it, and surely there was no way that wasn’t a bad impulse. For so many reasons. 

“Well, I appreciate the help. I’m, ah, a little surprised you stayed, honestly.” Charles regretted saying anything the moment he finished speaking, but that didn’t sound right so he pressed on anyway. “Not that you’re, ah, not welcome to. If you want. That’s fine, I don’t, ah. . . . I mean, it’s not a problem.”

“Sure,” Pickles said with a shrug, “not like I have anywhere else to be. I figured maybe I’d hang around and, y’know.” There was that lopsided grin again. “When you’re feelin’ better, maybe we can have a little rock n roll breakfast and fool around some more?”

Charles took a deep breath, trying to ignore a warm giddiness gathering in his chest— _Pickles from Snakes n Barrels wants to stay at my house to have breakfast and more sex with me._ “Okay. . . . Ah, what makes it rock n roll?”

Pickles waggled his pierced eyebrows. “Me.”

That surprised a snort of laughter out of Charles, and he welcomed Pickles laying down in front of him easily enough even though that was the side with the least space to the edge. Pickles wriggled back until they were pressed together, intimately back to front, and Charles automatically draped an arm over his waist. To keep Pickles from falling out of bed, he rationalized to himself, removing his glasses again and tossing them elsewhere on the bed, out of the way. 

They just laid there for a while. It occurred to him that if Pickles was still waiting on a residuals check to make ends meet then the man might’ve used the last of his funds on the cab ride here and not have any left to afford breakfast or a ride home on his own. That was still flattering, wasn’t it? Risking a long walk home on an empty stomach just to see him, Charles Offdensen. It made him feel warm on the inside to think about—but that was silly, he knew. They had absolutely nothing in common beyond an appreciation for metal music. And maybe there was a spark of something there, but that was beside the point. This could only ever be transitory and both of them knew it. 

Once the Advil had begun to kick in and he was starting to feel better, the curve of Pickles’ ass became more and more distracting. The other man felt him stir and rolled over with a grin. His bandana was out of place, giving Charles a glimpse of a rapidly retreating red hairline, a pretty significant chink in the whole Pickles from Snakes n Barrels image. Didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way Pickles was taking them both in hand with expert efficiency and kissing him hungrily, like _this_ was breakfast.


End file.
